


Love Like Ghosts

by thewesterndoor



Category: Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell, Simon Snow & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Angst and Porn, Denial of Feelings, Hopeful Ending, M/M, Pining, Post-Watford (Simon Snow)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-28
Updated: 2019-04-28
Packaged: 2020-02-09 11:01:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,095
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18636802
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thewesterndoor/pseuds/thewesterndoor
Summary: Five years after Simon's world collapsed and he was expelled from Watford, he thought he'd finally moved on. But when Simon starts to see Baz everywhere he goes--whether Baz is there or not--Simon finds himself struggling with some unresolved (and very confusing) feelings.





	Love Like Ghosts

**Author's Note:**

> This AU is one where Baz was never kidnapped, and the events with the Mage went down in a very different way.
> 
> The title is from the Lord Huron song off the Strange Trails album.
> 
> As always I need to give thanks to nekoshka who beta read this and helped edit.

The first time it happened Simon was able to convince himself it was a fluke—an accident.

It had all started when the customer had walked into the pub.  Not even walked, sauntered, like he  _ owned  _ the place.  Simon had glanced up from where he was mixing a Tom Collins to catch inky hair and a sharp widow’s peak, pale skin, and the sort of clothes that cost more than Simon’s rent.

It had taken Simon a whole minute to realize that he had frozen,  and another minute still for him to realize that the man wasn’t  _ him. _ It wasn’t Baz.

But as the evening rush progressed and the man lingered over drinks with some other finance types—Simon had been working at the pub long enough to recognize the type, if only from the shoes and watches—Simon hadn’t been able to stop himself from continuing to look over.

Every time, he’d half expected to find Baz really there, only to be…disappointed.  Could he really call it disappointment to not see the arch-nemesis of his adolescence there?  It had to be relief every time he’d realized that the nose was just a little too broad, the jaw too rounded, the fingers too short…but it didn’t  _ feel _ like relief.

And he hadn’t been able to stop looking.

_ Just habit, _ he’d reassured himself as he filled up a punter’s glass with another pint _.  _ The man looked so much like his former roommate, and some habits were hard to break.

Seven years they’d shared a room at school. Seven years keeping an eye on that slick bastard, wondering when Baz would try to kill him again; it had become second nature for Simon to always be aware of where Baz was, what he was doing.  It had been his responsibility to know…to prepare…until, it wasn’t.

With the Mage’s death and Simon’s power gone, the whole war—everything that Simon’s life had been building towards from the moment the Mage had found him—had just crumpled up right before his eyes.

It was never supposed to end that way.  Simon hadn’t planned on it ending that way.  He wasn’t supposed to have to worry about life after Watford because…well, because there wasn’t going to  _ be _ life after Watford.  For years, he’d wondered why he could never picture what life would look like after he graduated, and then at the start of his seventh year he’d finally realized it was because he probably wouldn’t live much past graduation.  It’s not like he’d thought Baz would pull out a wand at the leaver’s celebration, but really that wouldn’t have been out of character for the dramatic git. 

But five years out from when the Mage’s spells had finally turned on him—when Simon’d been the one to find him…the one who’d had to…

“Oi, Snow, how you doing there mate?”

Simon blinked, glancing between the overflowing glass in his hand and the husky man smiling at him.

“Shit, right.  Thanks…err…sorry…” Simon yanked his hand back, dumping the contents of the glass into the nearby sink and setting the glass down with a soft click.

Chris, the owner, slapped one meaty hand against Simon’s shoulder.

“Y’alright? You look a bit peaky. You need to take the rest of the night off?” Chris asked.  His tone was light enough, but Simon could see concern in the older man’s eyes.

_ Another thing to feel guilty about _ .

“No, I’m fine.  Just…” Simon couldn’t find the right words to explain what was going on. 

_ Baz would’ve had the right words. _

Simon took a quick breath through his nose, trying to pull his thoughts together.  He hadn’t thought about Watford since he’d left—since he’d been asked to leave. That Christmas Day when he’d found himself suddenly outside the gates of Watford and told to go on his merry fucking way.

Chris waited patiently, one eyebrow lifting in silent encouragement, but Simon finally just had to shrug.

“Sorry, just some stuff going on,” Simon said.

“Uh huh,” Chris said, though he didn’t press.

That was his boss’s single best feature.  For the three years Simon had been at the Wren’s Grave, they’d yet to have a conversation that wasn’t about the weather, football, the price of beer, or Chris’s increasingly complicated  _ Game of Thrones _ theories.  That suited Simon just fine.

And if he happened to feel a little lonely, it was only on the nights when he couldn’t sleep.  When he had a chance to realize how lonely a bedroom was without the sound of someone else’s breathing or the scrape of sheets as they moved about.

“Can I get the same again?” A low voice asked, the consonants and syllables carrying the echo of expensive schools and money.

Simon looked into a pair of brown eyes.

_ Numpty,  _ he thought at the swell of disappointment.

“What’re you having?” Simon asked, his voice oddly hoarse.

The man smiled.  It wasn’t anything like the feral look that Baz used to give Simon, but it was close enough to make his chest feel tight.

“Old fashioned.”

Simon gratefully started on the task of mixing the drink.  When he slid it across the bar, he found those same brown eyes fixed on him.

“Anything else?”

The man slid a fiver across the bar, shaking his head, but he still didn’t walk away.

“Have we met before?” the man asked.

With a shrug Simon gestured to the cozy interior of the pub.

“I’m here most nights.  You been here before?” Simon countered.

The man’s gaze drifted around, pausing on the faded wallpaper, the scuffed floor, and the scarred tables.

“No, not quite my scene.  I was just wondering why you kept looking at me.”

Simon flushed, his face going hot.

“Sorry, you look like a…like someone I used to…” he could feel the words tumbling in on themselves in his head until he couldn’t have found the right one if he’d tried.

_ I really was only ever going to be a rubbish mage _ .

Quickly he reached for the bill on the counter, but pale fingers caught his wrist in a surprisingly strong grip. Simon froze, staring down at the contrast of that white skin against his own darker golden.  A thumb moved slowly—deliberately—against the pulse point in his wrist. Something fluttered in Simon’s chest, and his limbs were slowly being turned to treacle.

Those fingers were too warm and too short, but if Simon didn’t see those eyes he could almost pretend…

With a whisper of a caress that sent shivers down Simon’s spine and heat pooling in his groin, the man’s thumb slid against the thin skin of Simon’s wrist and down to his palm, tracing its way to tip of his middle finger.

“Was it a good someone?”

Simon had to fight to keep his breathing even, but still couldn’t bring himself to look up and completely shatter the illusion.

“Complicated.”

“Ah.”  That one syllable held enough understanding that Simon’s gaze darted up.  The man took a sip from his drink before smiling. “One of those, hmm? I guess we all have exes like that.”

Before Simon could protest, the man drifted back to his table.

He stuck around for another hour, nursing his drink and giving Simon occasional looks, before he eventually wandered back out into the night.  Simon told himself that it was relief he felt, but it was more like he was…unsettled.

_ Of course you are.  Who wouldn’t feel unsettled if someone mistook  _ Baz Pitch  _ for their ex? _

But that didn’t feel quite right.  His skin felt itchy, and the heaviness in his limbs wouldn’t go away, even as he finally kicked out the last of the stragglers and helped Chris close up for the night.

It dogged him home through the dark streets and into his postage stamp flat.  As he lay in his ancient twin bed, rolling from one side to the other, it still wouldn’t let go.

Finally, looking for some sort of way to ease the the flood of thoughts—anything that might allow him the chance to sleep—Simon reached under the blankets.  He slid his hand under the band of his briefs to wrap his fingers around his cock.

Unbidden, the memory of pale fingers rose up, and Simon felt his cock twitch and a tension build low in his spine.

Slowly, he dragged his fingers up his length, drawing his thumb over the tip.  He kept his touch light, the teasing shadow of a caress, and Simon thought of the way the man had touched his hand earlier.  Except, when Simon closed his eyes, the fingers were longer—the beautiful slender fingers of a musician—and they were colder.

A shudder rippled through him, his breath coming out in a pant.

He tightened his grip, the lazy pulls gradually increasing to steady pumps, pausing occasionally to twist his hand around the head, to let his hand drift lower.  His hips rocked up into his grip, and he could feel his release hovering, a weight in his gut, twisting his muscles tighter and tighter, waiting for just that little bit more…that bit more that he couldn’t quite find.

Again he thought of  _ those _ hands. He pictured them in place of his own, wrapped around him; imagined another body just above his.

Simon’s release rocked through him, spots exploding across his vision as his whole body went tight.  His hips jerked as he shuddered, ecstasy briefly twining through him.

His cum had no sooner cooled across his chest than Simon realized what he had done.  Shame coursed through him. His skin prickled with it, and his head throbbed.

_ It means nothing _ , he told himself as he staggered into the toilet to clean himself off.   _ Absolutely nothing _ .

Just the product of memories better left buried getting confused with a little affection.  And there was no way that it would happen again. Simon would have to shove all thoughts and memories of Baz back down where they belonged, and then he could move on.  He could continue to try to pretend that his new normal was enough.

 

***

The second time it happened, Simon should have known better.  He should have been prepared. He should have been on guard.

A day after the run-in, Simon had been wary as he’d slunk into the bar for his evening shift, but the finance guy never showed up.  It was the same each day for the rest of the week: Simon would hold his breath each time the door opened, waiting in suspense, but it was never him.  After a couple of weeks Simon had started to be able to ignore the door, and after a couple of months he’d been able to put the whole encounter out of his mind.

Life had resumed its normal pace, and if Simon had taken up extra shifts to try to spend as little time as possible alone with his thoughts, then who was to fault him?  The money was good, and outside of the pub-league football on Saturday afternoons Simon had little else. 

Sitting on the bench pitch-side, adjusting the laces of his trainers, Simon wondered if maybe he should get himself a pet.

_ Be like Ebb and the goats _ , he thought too quickly before he could shove it back down with everything else.

Pain tore through him at the memory of Ebb—another item on the list of things Simon had told himself he would never think about again.

He quickly knotted his laces and then launched himself off the bench, jogging over towards where the team had started to gather.

As he neared the group, Harry, the team’s captain and the closest thing Simon allowed himself to a friend, pulled himself away and sidled up to Simon.

“Gonna be a shite day for a match,” Harry grumbled, combing back his ginger hair into a ponytail.

Simon squinted up towards the grey sky.  He could taste rain on the air, and from the looks of it they wouldn’t have long to wait.  But a messy game might be what Simon needed. He could muck about in the mud, go for a pint with the lads, and pretend that he hadn’t slipped up.

“It won’t be so bad.  It’s always a laugh to play in the rain,” Simon said with a grin.

Harry’s smiled back, shaking his head.

“You’re an idiot.  You know that, right?  Anyway, my mate’s supposed to give us a try today, but not sure he’ll be keen on the rain.”

“Recruiting, huh?”

Simon couldn’t help but look through the group, trying to see if there was anyone he didn’t recognize.  Movement over by the small changing block caught his attention and he turned automatically.

Simon’s heart stopped, and his body went cold and then hot.

It was like being back at Watford—back at all of those football matches he’d watched, his eyes only ever fixed on one player.  Simon may’ve gone to make sure that Baz wasn’t up to his usual villainous schemes, but even he’d had to acknowledge the way Baz dominated the pitch.

The man squinting across the distance held himself in exactly the same way.  He had the same height and lean build, his gait easy as he loped across the grass to join them.  His hair was a little shorter than Baz’s—than the Baz of Simon’s memory—but it was just as dark.

“Jamie, you came!” Harry called out happily as the man stopped in front of them.

Harry quickly made introductions, and Simon found himself shaking a large hand, rough with calluses. 

Up close Jamie and Baz had more differences than similarities; Jamie had the sort of tan that came with someone who enjoyed the outdoors; his eyes were a warm brown, and it was immediately clear that he was someone far more comfortable smiling and sharing a laugh than throwing out insults.  But the moment that the match started, Simon’s gaze kept getting drawn back to Harry’s friend. It stripped away all of the last five years and made Simon remember his warring feelings of exhilaration and suspicion as he’d watched Baz, always forgetting that he shouldn’t be cheering his roommate on until it was too late and the bastard was giving him smug looks that made his chest hurt.

By the time the match was over, Simon was drained.  He’d been absolute rubbish on the pitch, and what he needed was a hot shower, a beer, and something mindless to watch.  He followed the rest of the guys to the changing block, but that did nothing for his nerves.

Harry grabbed the locker next to Simon, with Jamie just the other side.  Simon took one look around the locker room, saw Jamie pulling his t-shirt over his head, and decided that it was better for his sanity if he just waited.

“Forgot something outside,” he mumbled vaguely and hurried back out.

He dragged his feet as he crossed the pitch, making a show of poking around the sidelines before slowly walking back.  He stopped and messed about on his phone for a bit until finally, he saw most of the guys starting to leave.

_ It has to be safe now _ .

All Simon needed was to not see Jamie.  To not be haunted by those damn memories.

When he walked in, the changing room was empty.  Simon gratefully shucked his gear, then grabbed his towel from his locker and padded his way over to the showers.  The room was still thick with steam, and there was one shower going.

Under the spray, Simon saw two figures kissing.

No, kissing was too mild a word.  They were…Simon’s mind drew a blank as he searched for something adequate.  This was a proper snog, one with tongues and heavy breathing and fingers tangled in hair.  The sound of a moan ricocheted off the tile.

Through the water and steam Simon was able to see Harry, his red hair glossy and pale skin flushed.  Pressed up against him was Jamie.

Simon knew he shouldn’t be seeing this—they clearly thought they were alone—but he couldn’t quite look away.  His gaze drifted from where Jamie’s mouth had moved to lick at Harry’s neck, to Harry’s arm that was angled between them,  _ moving _ between them in a steady rhythm, to the firm sweep of Jamie’s muscled ass rocking forward.

Fire whipped through Simon’s body, and he became aware of a growing ache in his own cock.

Desperately, he turned on his heel and bolted for the toilet stalls.  His fingers fumbled with the lock, and he was too dazed to care when his towel fell to the ground.  He slumped back against the closed door and gripped his cock.

This time, instead of just the pale hands, Simon pictured them attached to someone specific.  Someone who had been able to make any movement look like fucking poetry. Someone who had the sort of athletic ease that made you wonder what it would be like to have them fucking you.

Simon groaned as his grip tightened, his thumb sliding through his precum, and wondered what it would be like to have another man’s cock sliding against his—to have his hand around them both, and know that the other person was just as desperate.  Darts of electricity were soaring through his body, and he could feel a familiar heaviness building.

_ So close. _

The phantom smell of cedar and bergamot rose up from the depths of Simon’s memory, of the few times Baz had forgotten his clothes in their room and came back from his shower with just a towel slung around his hips.  Simon had thought nothing of it at the time, but now…

With a final flick of his wrist he came into his palm, his breathing deep and ragged.

_ Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck. _

Simon pressed his eyes shut, wondering what was wrong with him.  Was this some sort of delayed plot of Baz’s? Some long game that Simon had never been able to anticipate?  Why else would he be jerking off in a public toilet to the single person he had hated the most?

And what if Harry or Jamie had heard?

Simon’s stomach dropped, and he buried his face against his forearm.  He took a slow breath in through his nose, letting the air out through his mouth.

It would be fine.  It  _ had  _ to be fine.  He’d wait for a little while until he was sure that Harry and Jamie were both gone, and then he could leave and get absolutely pissed.  And he’d look into finding another league.

_ It’ll be fine _ , Simon kept telling himself, even as his body ached with the knowledge that it wouldn’t be that easy.

***

By the third time, Simon’s world had already shrunk down to the bar and home.  What little time he spent in his miserable flat that wasn’t eating or sleeping, Simon had the TV blaring whatever was the loudest, the most distracting.  He’d collapsed his world down as small as he could make it, but it still wasn’t enough. In the small gaps of silence throughout his days—the lulls at work, the bus ride home—his thoughts still kept cropping up.

One moment Simon would be sitting on the bus, trying to ignore the chatter and flirting of the sixth formers on their way home from school; the next, he would be remembering what it felt like to sit out on the lawn at Watford with Penny and Agatha, sun warming the back of his neck as he listened to the girls talk. Or he’d be in the storeroom at the pub, and suddenly remember the taste of Watford’s roast beef.

But none of that had prepared him for the night Baz walked into the Wren’s Grave—walked in like copies of him hadn’t already been hounding Simon; like it was nothing.

Simon had heard Chris call out a greeting to the people who’d just come in and looked up.  His heart had lurched at the man he saw, his cheeks burning with the memory of the last few times he’d jerked himself off—he hadn’t dared since the disaster at the park changing block.

At first, Simon hoped that it was just the finance guy...in a second his vision would clear, and he could take comfort in the discrepancies. But the man in front of him was perfect.  His dark hair was a little shorter, his build a little more solid, but other than that every detail was exactly as he remembered. It was Baz.

And the bastard didn’t even notice Simon.

Instead he just sat at a table with his group, his back to the bar.  A few people came up to get rounds of drinks for the table, but Baz never moved.  He never looked behind him.

Simon tried to tell himself he was grateful.  The only better outcome than being able to pretend the other didn’t exist would be if Simon got the chance to get in a swing at Baz.  But Simon hated feeling like he was invisible. He wanted to march over there and force Baz to acknowledge him.

More than that, he wanted…Simon just  _ wanted _ .  

“Chris, do you mind?” Simon asked, jerking his chin towards the bar.  “I’ve got a splitting headache.”

Chris glanced around the bar, then nodded.

“Yeah, should be fine.  Not much going on tonight.  You alright to get home?”

“I’ll be fine.  It’s not too far.  Cheers.”

“Well, there’s some stuff in the back—paracetamol or some such.  You should grab some before you go.”

Simon nodded and slipped out from behind the bar, hurrying towards the back corridor that led to the small office.  His legs felt rubbery and he could feel every pound of his heartbeat throughout his body. By the time he reached the plain door marked STAFF ONLY, it was all Simon could do to push the door open and sink down into the desk chair.  Blindly, he fumbled around in the drawers until he found the blister pack of pain medication. He popped out two and dry swallowed them, hoping that the fog in his head would recede.

There was a small sound at the door, and Simon turned.

“I found the paracetamol, ta,” Simon said, the words turning leaden in his mouth.

Instead of Chris, he was staring up at the familiar beauty of Baz Pitch.

“This room’s for staff only.” Simon’s voice was thick in his throat.

Baz lifted one eyebrow in that cool way of his, flicking his gaze towards the door and back towards Simon.

“So I gathered.  Nice to see that you’re as quick as ever, Snow.”

Hearing Baz’s voice, Simon wondered how he ever could have thought the finance guy’s had been similar.  Baz’s voice was deeper—or maybe it had grown deeper since Watford—and there was that _ edge _ to it. When Baz spoke, it always sounded as though he was in absolute control. At the age of ten, that had just made Simon think he was a jerk, and at the age of fifteen it had made him want to punch Baz; now, at twenty three, it made Simon want to see just how firm that control was.

“Fuck off, Pitch,” Simon said through gritted teeth.

“And clearly as erudite as ever.”

The absolute worst of it all was that Simon had  _ missed _ this.  Of all the stuff at Watford that he could miss, and that he should miss, it was  _ embarrassing _ that Baz being a twat ranked higher.

“What are you up to? Some new plot? Is this where I find out that you couldn’t be content to let me live out the rest of my shitty, miserable life? You finally want to have our showdown?”

Baz sneered at Simon, his gaze raking over him.

“You think you’re worth the trouble?”

Simon rose up from the chair and closed the distance between them.

“So what are you here for?” he demanded.  He was reaching the end of his control. Simon had been slowly fraying, falling apart for the past five years, and he was exhausted trying to hold onto those threads.

“Some uni friends come here.  They dragged me along. And I had to—”

Standing so close to Baz, Simon could smell cedar and bergamot.  Heat flashed through him, and Simon finally let go.

“Had to what?” Simon demanded, cutting Baz off.  He crowded Baz back against the wall until there were only inches between them.  His body ached with the need to close that final distance, and even he couldn’t say whether it was to fuck or fight.

Baz’s eyes had gone wide and dark, his focus drifting down to Simon’s mouth.  The weight of that gaze felt like a touch, Simon’s skin lighting up and a thrill coursing down to his groin.

_ Say something _ , Simon thought desperately.  All he needed was for Baz to say something shitty, something belittling, something that would remind Simon of how much he hated him, and then he could find the ability to walk away.  Baz stayed silent.

A hand fluttered out as if to grab Simon, those long pale fingers exactly as Simon had remembered them.  Heat sailed through him, and all he could do was lean forward and press his lips to Baz’s.

The kiss was punishing and fierce.  Simon figured he’d been suffering with this enough, and it was time for him to share it with Baz.  His lips moved against Baz’s, demanding and taking that control that Baz wore like a mantle.

A hand clawed at Simon’s back, pulling at his t-shirt.  For a moment, Simon thought that Baz was going to push him away, but then he realized that the hand was pressing Simon forward—closer. It slid down Simon’s back until it was at his hip, and then pulled him closer there as well.

Simon could feel the press of Baz’s erection between them.  As he ground their hips together, he heard Baz moan.

_ I should stop. _  Simon knew that.  This was a Very Bad Idea.  No good would come of this; he couldn’t even fathom what it all meant.  What he did know was that he had been so lonely, and this felt…Simon just wanted this.  He could think about whatever it meant later, but for now he wanted to hear Baz come apart.  And he wanted to just feel  _ good _ .

Giving in to need, Simon kissed his way along the curve of Baz’s jaw until he reached his neck.  He pressed his teeth against the sensitive skin. Baz shuddered against him, and when Simon did it again—harder this time—another moan escaped him.

When Simon finally pulled back to look at Baz’s face, gone was the indifference and control.  Baz’s eyes were dark, his lips swollen, and Simon felt a thrill at the marks already appearing on Baz’s skin.  Baz would be wearing signs of this encounter for days at least.

Simon reached down to press his hand to where Baz’s cock strained against his trousers.  Baz groaned, low and pained, pressing his hips forward into the touch. Simon’s own cock was throbbing, and he could feel the dizzying press of his release closing in.

With fumbling fingers he pulled at the fastenings of Baz’s trousers, working at the layers until he’d freed Baz’s erection.  His grip was firm as he slid his hand from base to tip. He paused at the head, pulling and twisting, before sliding back down.  Baz’s eyes had drifted shut, and his breath was raspy with each movement of Simon’s hand.

He was beautiful and messy; more than Simon’s fantasies could have imagined. 

Baz’s hand dropped to Simon’s own trousers, pulling him free until Baz had Simon’s cock in his hand.

It was more than Simon could bear.  Just the feel of Baz’s fingers delicately coasting up his length, cool and gentle, had him gritting his teeth against his need to cum.  He pressed his forehead against Baz’s shoulder, each breath filled with that familiar scent, and he gave himself over to the feel of Baz touching him, of finally touching Baz.

Baz shuddered as he came, his breathing hoarse in Simon’s ear and his hand still working Simon’s own cock, though the rhythm was erratic and Baz’s fingers gripped him tightly.

When Simon finally came, the wave sweeping through him, it was like he was broken apart and then put back together.  It took him a moment to realize that he was still in the office of the pub, and that he had just jerked off with  _ Baz. _  Not just jerked off with, but been jerked off  _ by _ .

Simon took a step backwards on unsteady feet and looked up at Baz.  Baz’s eyes were still a little dazed, but his usual look was returning quickly.

Before he could think, Simon tucked himself back into his trousers, grabbing a tissue from the desk to wipe off his palm.

“I’ve got to go,” he muttered as he walked around Baz and out into the corridor.

What was wrong with them?  They hadn’t even closed the bloody door.

“Where are you going?”

If Simon didn’t know better, he might have thought Baz’s voice sounded hurt.

_ Wishful thinking. _

“I have…things…I’ve got to…” As always words were failing Simon when he needed that barrier between him and Baz the most. “I’ve just got to go.”

Baz’s voice was clipped, but his eyes held a hint of vulnerability that Simon didn’t remember ever seeing there before. “Can I see you again?”

Hope bloomed dangerous and full in Simon’s chest.  His heart ached with the direction his thoughts were taking.

_ Don’t be a numpty.  This meant nothing to Baz. _

But Simon couldn’t stop himself from nodding.

“Yeah, if you want.”

Before Baz could say anything else, Simon left the room.  He didn’t stop until he’d walked out of the bar and made it out to the street.  Only there did he allow himself to catch his breath.

This wasn’t going to end well.  Even without a war, Simon struggled to imagine a world where he and Baz Pitch would have anything but a bitter end.

But as he walked through the night, he couldn’t stop the smile creeping across his face.  For the first time in a long while, things felt like they made sense. His world felt a little less bleak.  And for the first time in five years, Simon went home and slept through the night.

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading/commenting/leaving kudos! ❤️
> 
> I do have plans for a follow up after I finish off some of the projects in my queue. I try to post updates about my writing over on Tumblr.
> 
> You can find me on Tumblr at thewesterndoor.


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